It’s been decades, but the 1999 World Cup semi-final at Edgbaston remains an inerasable scar. From the chaos of the final over to a midnight chat with "Basil Fawlty" himself, we look back at the day the music died in South African cricket.
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I wonder if I have had a stranger evening than that of June 17, 1999, when Basil Fawlty and I discussed a cricket match while I gazed forlornly at the Indian Ocean rolling up on North Beach, as it had for millions of years.
Dispassionate waves doing what they have always done, stoically uncaring about the drama that had just unfolded on television screens at Jo Kools, the Durban beachfront bar and restaurant.
For those who watched the World Cup Proteass semi-final tie against Australia at Edgbaston, the final moments are inerasable. You can’t un-watch Alan Donald failing to hear Lance Klusener’s call for a run to win the game, then attempting the run, dropping his bat, and being run out.
Australia advanced to the final because of a better net run rate during the preceding Super Six stage.
That was the closest to genuine sporting heartbreak I have experienced.
What was it about that game that had South Africa metaphorically flying the national flag at half-mast and wearing black armbands for a week?
This week’s World Cup semi-final loss to New Zealand was greeted with an “Oh well” shrug and will soon be forgotten.
I guess back in 1999, there was far less cricket and only one World Cup. Now we have the five-day Test championship, the ODI World Cup, and a T20 version.
Also, South Africa were still fairly new to international sport in 1999; there was the special arrogance of Steve Waugh’s bully boys; and the pain of Kepler Wessels’ Proteas losing a rain-affected semi-final to England in 1992 was still fresh.
At the risk of opening up psychological scars, let’s revisit the events of that final over. South Africa needed nine runs to win.
First ball: Klusener smacks a Damien Fleming full toss to the boundary. Jo Kools goes off, and there is wild cheering.
Second ball: Fleming bowls a yorker, but somehow Klusener strokes the ball past Mark Waugh for four more. Klusener had scored 31 runs off 14 balls, and South Africa are now level. It is bedlam in Jo Kools. Just one run is needed from four balls.
South African commentator Mike Procter says, “What kind of shot is that? That's unbelievable. Is he going to do it again for South Africa? He has done it on so many occasions. The first two deliveries of this over, he has gone bang, bang, four, four – take that!”
Aussie Bill Lawry reminds Proccie that South Africa have only one wicket in hand and Australia would go through in the event of a tie.
Waugh brings his field up inside the circle to try to prevent a single being taken.
Third ball: Klusener mis-hits his shot to Darren Lehmann at mid-on. The excited Donald has come a long way down the wicket, and Lehmann throws the ball toward the stumps. Had he hit, Donald would have been out.
Procter remarks, “That could be the difference between a World Cup final or nothing.” Jo Kools sighs. Nerves are shot, and there is animated chatter.
Fourth ball: Klusener hits to Mark Waugh at mid off, and sets off for a dicey run, even though there are still two balls remaining. Donald, at the other end, is watching the ball instead of his partner. Waugh flings the ball to Fleming, who rolls it along the pitch to Adam Gilchrist standing over the stumps. The bat-less Donald is easily run out.
In Jo Kools it is like an alien intervention has struck humans speechless. There is utter silence apart from Lawry’s nasal voice — “It’s gonna be run out...oh, that is South Africa out. I cannot believe it. Ridiculous running with two balls to go. Donald did not go; Klusener went. What a disappointing end for South Africa.”
At this point, my phone pings. A friend of mine is nursing at a posh hospital in London. The message reads: "Do you want to talk to John Cleese about the cricket? He wants to talk to a South African.”
Yeah right. THE John Cleese of Fawlty Towers and Monty Python fame?
Cleese was recovering from minor surgery and watched the game. He had been overwhelmed by the drama.
My phone rings as I am staring out at the unsympathetic ocean. A crisp British voice on the other end politely says, “Sorry to disturb, but I just had to get the viewpoint of a South African after that astonishing ending.”
It truly is John Cleese, but I’m only hearing Basil Fawlty. He wants to know where I watched. He is fascinated as I describe the train wreck that is Jo Kools. I’m expecting at any second for him to pause to give Manuel a clip on the ear, or to hear Sybil shriek, “Basillll!”
And then my surreal brush with celebrity is up. Cleese’s last words are trademark Basil — “Bad luck. I was rooting for you guys. You can never trust those bloody Aussies.”